


Like Real People Do

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Healer Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29628099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: When Castiel first began officially, per se, dubbing his home as a sort of hunter checkpoint, he didn’t expect it to become as big of a part in his life as it turned out to be. It started as a hobby, researching herbs and healing, and having an injured hunter at his side for it was a win-win. He’d always considered himself more of a healer than a hunter—never really got into hunting the same way his siblings did—and now, as he slowly built up his catalogue of spells while the rest of them scattered all over the country to join the foray of other hunters, Castiel found himself enjoying it more than he ever did tackling down a ghoul or salting and burning a spirit.He was always the peacemaker of the family, after all. It made sense that he took on a passive, backend role in hunting, too.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel) described this fic as "gay cottagecore", which I will take as a great compliment lol.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

He heard the knock on his door right as he was about to start making dinner; stove on and kettle boiling.

It was more of a thump, really. Like whoever it was, they’d just collapsed at his door without a moment’s notice, not even enough energy left to muster up anything else.

Castiel hurried into the hall, making a beeline for the exit. As he neared the door, his mind was already spinning: he had everything laid out on the table in the kitchen already, pushed to the side for a quiet meal, the books nearly lined up on the shelves. Nothing was short nor missing. 

He opened the door—and bent down, arms outstretched, immediately catching the newcomer who had been slumped against his door and was now a faintly-groaning lump in his arms. She had long brown hair, matted and clumped with twigs, dirt, rotting leaves; she smelled thickly of blood and something darker, like tar.

Wendigo, Castiel thought with a jolt of shock. She must’ve been in her early twenties, at most, her youthful face pale and clammy.

“Hello,” he said, even though she was barely conscious, like he always did. 

The girl groaned again, louder; her eyes fluttered open in a shock of bright-blue.

“Hi,” she mumbled, voice thick with pain and delirium. “Cas?”

“That’s me,” Castiel said, and hoisted her up onto her feet for just long enough to get one of her limp arms around his shoulders. “Come in. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Taking most of her weight (which wasn’t a lot), they stumbled their way into the kitchen, where Castiel dropped her—carefully—into a chair. She slumped down low with a sound of relief, and Castiel could see her wound, now, right along her knee, leaking blood and staining it into the wood. He would need to wipe it down again, later, but he turned his focus to grabbing bandages, a bowl of water, a mortar and pestle for the herbs he needed for this particular salve—wendigo claws were wicked sharp and a one-way trip to infection.

Crouching down in front of the girl, Castiel saw that her knee was already clotted in dark burgundy.

“Can I cut through these?” Castiel asked, laying a hand as lightly as he could manage on her torn and bloodied jeans. At her weak nod, he carefully cut the fabric, pulling it away to reveal the wound and hissing in sympathy at the sight. He let his instincts kick in, pushing away his worry for later—gathering the herbs and mixing the salve and lightly, with a tender hand, washing away the wound. By the time he finished, the bowl of water was crimson and the girl was stirring blearily back into consciousness, her eyes bright and hazy with pain but clear, watching Castiel with an edge of alertness.

“That’s the best I can do for now,” Castiel murmured, grazing a hand over her patched-up knee. He stood up and made his way to his own chair, sitting himself down so that they were at eye level. “Would you like some coffee? A cup of tea?”

“Just water, please,” the girl said quietly. Castiel nodded, and made his way to the cupboards to grab two glasses.

“Thanks,” she whispered when he returned. Castiel smiled at her. “I’m Jo, by the way.”

“Castiel,” Castiel returned. “Although you know that already.”

Jo huffed. “Yeah. My mother told me about you.” At the mention of her mother, her eyes turned soft. “She nearly blew the house up when I wanted to go hunting. I wasn’t allowed for years.”

Castiel inclined his head. He was good at the first part—the carrying, the healing, the patching up—but small talk was never his forte. But after a year, he’d gotten the message that typically, after saving someone’s life, they expected a conversation. It was awkward at first, to hear a bloodied and beaten stranger ramble on about their life and the hunt and, sometimes, much more than what was suitable to talk about with someone like Castiel—but now it was nearly second nature.

“What changed her mind?” he settled on.

“You,” Jo said simply. “Or, part of it, at least. You being here for all the hunters, it’s, well. It’s like a safe haven, you know? Not that there aren’t any others—hell, my mom’s place is as good as any—but it’s good to know that there’s a place we can go for immediate help. Like, a…”

“A checkpoint?” Castiel supplied.

“Exactly! Get our health bars back to full.”

Castiel couldn’t help but smile. He’d heard a previous hunter describe his home as such before. “In my experience, hunters are stubborn creatures who won’t accept help unless they’re on death’s last doors. If I could encourage more of them to visit me more often, I would.”

Jo laughed. “You got that part right. My mom made me promise up and down that I’d come to you if I got the slightest bit hurt.”

“I wouldn’t call that the ‘slightest bit’,” Castiel said, gesturing at her knee, and Jo grimaced.

“Yeah… Mom’s gonna kill me when I get back.”

“Give her my regards,” Castiel said. “Ellen, right?”

Jo’s head shot up. “How did you know?”

“You look like her,” Castiel said. “She owns the Roadhouse, if I recall correctly. I’ve heard many good things about it.”

“Thanks.” Jo finished the rest of her water and put it down on the table with a solid thump. “Your place, too. Hunters talk about it, back at mine. Says you’re the best healer around.”

“It’s nothing special,” Castiel deflected. “All in the books.”

“Oh, please,” Jo said, rolling her eyes. “From what I’ve heard, it’s a whole lot more than that. They call you an angel, you know.”

Castiel felt a flurry of gratitude along with an embarrassed flush down his neck. “Well—”

“God, just take the compliment, will you?”

“Fine,” Castiel said faintly, and watched Jo grin from the corner of his eye.

They exchanged a few more words, drifting to details about the hunt—she had slipped on a patch of mossy rock and lost control of the situation for just a split second, which in hunter’s terms was enough to put a gash in her knee that would keep her sedentary for days—and when the sun lowered enough in the sky to shine through Castiel’s window and cast an orange glow onto the table, Jo stood up and said that she needed to go.

“My mom’s already going to be angry enough,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to be late on top of it.”

Her voice was light, but the look in her eyes was bitter; disappointment on top of everything. That she wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough. Castiel had seen that look haunting nearly every hunter that stumbled, slipped, or crawled into his home.

To see it in Jo, so young, made something tug in his chest.

“Your mother wants you to be safe,” he told her as she stood by the door, the sun making her hair shine like woven gold. “Hunting is dangerous. It’s best to find a partner, at least. Having someone at your back can make all the difference.”

Jo’s eyes lowered, fixed on the scruffy welcome mat Castiel had put out in a spur of irony-induced inspiration. “I guess,” she mumbled.

“Tell Ellen hi for me,” Castiel said. “I might drop by and visit sometime.”

“You better,” Jo said, smiling a little. “Thanks again. Bye.” She turned away, and Castiel watched her leave for a few seconds before lightly shutting the door with a click.

He stood there for a while more, and then made his way back to the kitchen, steps slow. He meticulously cleaned everything up, wiping away all the drops of blood. He tucked the books and ingredients and mortar and pestle back into the corner. He turned the stove back on, and finished making his dinner.

Sometimes there would be knocks on his door like dominoes, and he’d hardly have enough time to change out the bandages and refill the bowl of water before the next hunter came staggering into his home, bleeding and clutching half their guts in their hands.

Sometimes he’d go days without, where his spellbooks and journals gathered dust in the corner of his kitchen. He’d spend them jotting down notes about monsters, touching up on his Latin (sometimes, herbs and antibiotics weren’t enough), and dutifully recasting the protection spells around his home. He did live in the epicentre of one of the most dangerous woods in the area, after all—a good thing when it came to hunters in dire need of a place to stay, but bad in all other ways. Worth it, though.

Castiel did all of those things, and then sat down in front of his window and thought about all the hunters out there, throwing their bodies like raw meat into spirits and monsters. These lulls came sporadically and without warning, but the longer they lasted the more it itched and tickled in the back of his mind, because it would almost always come to a head, and the longer he waited the more he knew, with a near-subconscious certainty, that it would be bad.

He was right.

It came in the morning, which wasn’t typical hunting behaviour considering most monsters came out at night. Perhaps this one was hunting overnight and unknowingly leached into the pale-pink hours of the morning.

It was a knock, this time; three hard, steady knocks, in fact, so that when Castiel opened the door, he was expecting nothing more than a few cuts and bruises, a fractured bone or a sluggishly-bleeding wound.

“Hello,” Castiel said cautiously. The man had dirty-blond hair and green eyes that seemed more grey in the early-morning light.

“Hey,” the man breathed, his voice rough and deep like gravel. “How’s it going?”

Castiel blinked. “I’m okay,” he said slowly.

“Good to hear,” was the response. “I’m Dean.”

“Castiel.”

Dean nodded. “Nice to meet ya.”

Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn’t sure how to word his inquiry in a better way than  _ Why are you here,  _ so instead he dragged his eyes across Dean’s torso, skimming for injuries without a word.

His gaze skittered to his leg, and Castiel sucked in a breath.

“Yeah,” Dean said, and Castiel could make out the tendrils of pain in his voice, now that he was looking. “Pretty bad, huh?”

“Pretty— _ get in here,”  _ Castiel said, his own blood running to ice at the sight of the torn and mangled flesh, so much blood it had turned black. How he wasn’t on the ground, Castiel had no clue.

“Bossy,” Dean muttered, and Castiel glared. He spared his cutting remark in favour of stepping closer, and taking Dean’s arm by the hand, ignoring his protests—protests!—as Castiel dragged an arm over his shoulder to take Dean’s weight. 

“Would you  _ stop?”  _ Castiel snapped, after they’d made it halfway into his house, Dean mumbling the whole time, even in half-delirium and hissing with pain. “I have two functioning legs. You have one. Let me take your weight.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean said, finally slumping down right when they reached the kitchen, Castiel carefully lowering him into the chair. His eyes were fluttering and his voice was weaker than before, and Castiel felt autopilot take over as he danced around his kitchen, grabbing everything he needed before making his way back to Dean.

“Can I cut these?” Castiel asked, carefully touching Dean’s knee, trying to avoid the wound—if only he could see where the wound  _ was.  _

“Jeez,” Dean mumbled. “They’re my second-favourite pair.” He haphazardly flailed a hand like a fish out of water, and Castiel took that as a Dean-version of acknowledgement to take his scissors and gently cut through the denim.

Castiel uttered a curse under his breath when he saw the wound, laced with veins with black licking at the edges. Venom.

“Vetala,” Dean explained, as if Castiel couldn’t see, didn’t know immediately by the sight. “Didn’t get a bite in, but got me with its claws. Killed that son of a bitch.”

Castiel hummed in response, already gathering ingredients for the spell he’d need to purge the venom. “The claws aren’t fatal,” he said, “but they still have venom. It’s less potent, for sure, but I’ll perform a purification spell just in case.”

“‘Kay,” Dean said. “Thanks. And, uh, sorry.”

Castiel looked up from where he was mixing the rosemary into the bowl. “For what?”

“Y’know.” Dean shrugged. “Barging into your house. Bleeding all over your chair.”

Castiel watched Dean for a long time until he was certain he wasn’t being sarcastic. Then, he fell into a grim silence while he finished preparing the spell, and carried it all the way over to Dean.

“Put your hand over the bowl,” he instructed.

Dean obeyed. He kept glancing at Castiel, hopelessly indiscrete. 

Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he held the incantation in front of himself to read. “Dean,” he said. “What do you think I’m here for? Why do you think I have a home out here, with everything a hunter needs to heal themselves up for? Thank  _ you  _ for coming here. For trusting me to take care of you.”

Dean’s expression flickered; confusion, then some sort of affection softening the lines. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered.

“Brace yourself,” Castiel warned. “This is going to hurt.” 

He read the incantation and watched with a sympathetic throb in his chest as Dean threw his head back and groaned all the way from in his chest. On his knee, the wound shifted and flashed, then settled as Castiel finished speaking. It glowed faintly for a few moments more, then settled back into Dean’s skin—red-ringed, now, normal hunter’s blood and nothing more.

“That’s the venom dealt with,” Castiel said, rising to grab the washcloth and bandages.

“Awesome,” Dean said, starting to get up. 

Castiel stopped him with an incredulous look.

“What?” Dean said, a deer in headlights.

“You’re leaving,” Castiel said.

“Ye-e-es?” Dean said slowly. “Is that okay? Shit, do I need to pay you?”

Castiel took a deep, calming breath, and then said, very deliberately, “Dean, sit back down. Right now,” he added, with a bit of steel in his voice.

Dean sat back down, eyes wide and bewildered.

“Thank you,” Castiel said curtly, and then continued his search for his first-aid materials. He crouched back down next to Dean after procuring them, and—once again very deliberately—dipped his washcloth into the warmed water and placed it onto Dean’s knee, trying to dab rather than wipe, wary of the open wound.

Above him, Dean huffed. “Cas,” he said. “You don’t have to—I’m fine. I just needed the venom out, the rest I can do myself.”

“This will need stitches,” Castiel said, keeping his voice even. “Were you planning on doing that yourself, too?”

“Well—yeah.” Dean sounded defensive, now. “Is that a problem?”

Castiel finished cleaning the wound and grabbed his needle, holding it over a lighter flame to sterilize it before threading.

“You’re hunting alone,” he inferred.

“Yeah,” Dean said, quietly. “For now.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at that.

“My dad,” Dean elaborated. “He, uh. Drops by sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“He’s in… Sacramento? I think? Hunting a werewolf den.”

“And does he know you’re hunting alone?” Castiel eyed Dean—all doll-green eyes and baby face (though even with knowing Dean for less than a few minutes, Castiel already knew better than to tell that to his face unless he wanted to get punched).

Dean gave Castiel a Look. “I’m twenty-four, dude,” he said. All affront.

Castiel recognized this line of conversation as an impenetrable one, and moved on with a neutral sound of acknowledgement.

“This will hurt,” he said, just to fill the silence, gripping the needle in one hand and holding the skin around the wound taut in the other.

“No duh,” Dean said. “Don’t worry, I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

Pushing aside the prickle of annoyance at Dean’s overcompensation, Castiel jabbed the needle into skin with a twinge more force than necessary. 

He fell into a near-meditative focus while stitching up the wound, lulled by the way Dean was humming above his head, some absent tune Castiel couldn’t place. He owned a record player, some beaten-up old thing from an antique shop or garage sale, but he rarely used it himself.

“Done,” he proclaimed afterwards, wrapping Dean’s knee in thick, soft bandages. “Try not to put too much weight on it for the next few days.”

“Sure,” Dean said, in the tone of voice that meant he wasn’t listening.

“And don’t get it wet. Wrap it in plastic wrap before showering.”

“Yeah, okay.”

_ “Dean.” _

_ “Cas,”  _ Dean mimicked back, and flashed a grin at him. “Seriously, dude, I’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what his own expression was, how clearly the exasperation was shining through, but Dean’s eyes caught it and his grin softened into a smile.

“Don’t put weight on it, don’t get it wet,” Dean recited obediently. “Happy?”

Castiel suppressed a sigh. He stood up with Dean.

“Do you want some coffee?” he tried. “Or a cup of tea? Water, maybe?”

He didn’t know why he asked. Normally, skipping the small talk would give him a sigh of relief and a polite farewell as he closed the door behind them. Something about Dean—the shuttered, guarded look in his eyes behind his cocky smiles—flipped on his curiosity. Made him want to push and push until he caved, like a recalcitrant toddler.

“No thanks,” Dean said, as expected, which only made that part of Castiel glow brighter. “I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“I really don’t,” Castiel said before he could take it back.

They were at the door, now. Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, yeah? What else do you do in your spare time other than patching up rogue hunters?”

Castiel opened his mouth to deflect in the natural way he did upon being asked about himself, and then caught the spark of genuine curiosity in Dean’s eyes, and suddenly found himself saying, “I write.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean said again. More curiosity, stark and blatant. “About what?”

“Lore, mostly. Spells and cures. After tending to hunters like you, one tends to learn things about the supernatural. I thought it would be a good idea to write them down for future reference.” In fact, the Vetala’s claws containing their own, muted version of their fangs’ venom was something Castiel had learnt firsthand a few months ago, when he needed to frantically MacGyver a modified spell. 

“That’s cool.” Dean sounded impressed. “You should make copies of it, you know. Sell it to hunters. I’m sure they’d find all the information useful.”

Castiel blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s incomplete, anyway.”

Dean snorted. “With the supernatural? I don’t think it’ll ever be complete.” They exchanged rueful smiles.

“What else do you do?” Dean continued. He was like a dog with a bone. “I’m sure that can’t take up too much time.”

Castiel glanced at him. “Tell you what—I’ll tell you,  _ if,  _ the next time you get injured on a hunt around here, you come straight to me. No matter how big or small.”

Dean did a double-take. “You’re kidding.”

“You were going to walk away with a wound that required seven stitches,” Castiel said. “It’s a mile’s walk to any sort of civilization. I’m not sure how you were planning on getting yourself healed, but next time you’re near, all you have to do is knock.”

“Hunting takes me all sorts of places,” Dean protested. “Who knows the next time I’ll be in the area?”

“That’s alright,” Castiel said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, now I wanna get injured on purpose.”

Castiel looked up, alarmed, just in time to see Dean’s face break into a grin.

“You’re ridiculous,” Castiel said faintly. 

“You’re the one fussing over me like a baby,” Dean shot back.

“Just—all I am saying,” Castiel said, face heating up, “is that you should take care of yourself. Hunting is a dangerous sport.”

“Aww, thanks. It’s sweet that you care.”

“You’re  _ insufferable,”  _ Castiel said. “On second thought, do whatever you want. See if I care.”

Dean laughed and came closer, his hand coming up to squeeze Castiel’s shoulder.

“You know what, fine,” he finally said. “Next time I’m around, I’ll drop by.  _ And  _ I’ll be careful until then. Alright?”

“Fine,” Castiel said.

“Fine,” Dean mimicked, still smiling. His whole face changed when he smiled—corners of his eyes going crinkled and eyes turning soft. “I’ll get out of your hair for now. But I’m holding you to that promise.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Castiel said. “I’m not that interesting.”

“I’m sure you are,” Dean responded ambiguously, and left before Castiel could process it.

Castiel watched the closed door for a while, seeing Dean’s curtain-blurred figure moving away from the window.

He was definitely putting too much weight on his injured leg, damn it.

Castiel grumbled something under his breath, and then made his way back to the kitchen to clean everything up.

When Castiel first began officially, per se, dubbing his home as a sort of hunter checkpoint, he didn’t expect it to become as big of a part in his life as it turned out to be. It started as a hobby, researching herbs and healing, and having an injured hunter at his side for it was a win-win. He’d always considered himself more of a healer than a hunter—never really got into hunting the same way his siblings did—and now, as he slowly built up his catalogue of spells while the rest of them scattered all over the country to join the foray of other hunters, Castiel found himself enjoying it more than he ever did tackling down a ghoul or salting and burning a spirit.

He was always the peacemaker of the family, after all. It made sense that he took on a passive, backend role in hunting, too.

The next time Castiel saw Dean, three weeks had passed.

He heard the knock on the door—three firm, solid thumps—and the familiarity skimmed at him, just out of reach of conscious recognition. 

“Hey,” Dean said when he opened the door. “Long time no see.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, the word tumbling out of him.

“In the flesh,” Dean said. “And all in one piece! Well, mostly.” He offered his arm out to Castiel, which was dangling at an awkward angle. “Dislocated shoulder,” he said, casual as cake. “Poltergeist. I could pop it back in myself, but…”

“Come on in,” Castiel cut him off, and Dean was already grinning as he shouldered his way into his home.

“How’ve you been?” Dean asked, casual as ever as he walked into the kitchen, sitting down into the chair.

“Decent,” Castiel said. “You?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Is that good or bad?” Castiel asked wryly, coming closer and stepping around Dean to get to his shoulder. He put one hand on Dean’s chest and the other on his arm, gripping solidly.

“That’s the million-dollar question right there,” Dean muttered.

“Dean?” Castiel prodded.

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes just a little. “I’m peachy, Cas.”

“Mm,” Castiel said. 

“Really. I  _ am.” _

“Are you?”

“Ye— _ ow!”  _ Dean yelped, nearly toppling out of his chair, when Cas jerked his arm back into position with a wet cracking sound. _ “Jesus.  _ Give a guy some warning.” He grimaced, rolling his shoulders to test the motion.

“It hurts less when you’re distracted,” Castiel said. “Trust me.”

Dean’s eyes brightened. “Speaking from personal experience there, Cas?”

“Just once,” Castiel said. “I was wrestling with my brother, Gabriel. Things got a little out of hand. But don’t worry, he had a chipped tooth.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “And here I was, thinking you were all peaceful.”

“He started it.”

Dean laughed again. “That reminds me of my own brother, actually. Sammy. He, uh, broke his arm once jumping from a shed. I jumped first. We were Batman and Superman.”

“Batman can’t fly,” Castiel said casually.

“I know, right?” Dean’s voice, thick with obvious fondness.  _ “He  _ didn’t know that.”

“Your brother,” Castiel said. “Where is he now? Why isn’t he hunting with you?”

Dean’s eyes, sparkling, suddenly shuttered into something subdued.

“He’s at Stanford,” he said simply. “Got himself a full ride. I’m real proud of him.” 

And he was—Castiel could see it on his face, clear as day. But it was touched with melancholy, and, if he looked close enough, a bone-deep loneliness so constant it was shot through his veins.

“What about Gabriel?” Dean said, an obvious ploy to shift the topic that Castiel graciously accepted.

“Still hunting,” he said. “He works as a freelance travelling comedian in his free time, which I suppose all works out pretty well.”

“Huh. He any good?”

“Not at all.”

Dean’s smile came easier.

Castiel got up and made them both coffee, after Dean made no attempt to leave so suddenly as the last time—Dean’s black and his own with cream and sugar. They each sipped at their drinks, exchanging tidbits about their lives, Castiel watchful not to overstep the glaring red lines Dean had appeared to stomp down across anything that tread into emotional territories. (That same burning curiosity, again, flaring up like a firework.)

When Dean finally made his move to leave, Castiel’s own half-finished cup of coffee had gone cold and forgotten on his coaster, and he was simultaneously frustrated and impressed at Dean’s ability to swoop in and steer them away from any line of conversation about himself to direct it towards Castiel’s life, instead.

But he wasn’t going to push. Dean was a hunter, he had his own reasons, his own reserves. Castiel was merely—a checkpoint. Nothing more.

“You never answered my question,” Dean asked, hand once again stilling on the doorknob in a facsimile of the first time. “What else do you do in your spare time?”

Castiel licked his lips and tried, tentatively, to push. “I’ll answer that if you answer it as well.”

“That wasn’t what we agreed on,” Dean argued.

“It’s only fair,” Castiel argued back. “Dean, please?”

Dean hesitated—and then groaned. “Fine. Fine!” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “There really isn’t much, anyway. I hustle pool sometimes. Listen to music. Uh, hook up. With—anyone, really.” There was a pink flush to his ears.

“Oh,” Castiel said.

“What about you?” Dean said quickly.

“I don’t know how to play pool,” Castiel said. “I don’t really listen to music. And, um. I don’t ‘hook up’.”

“Really? Not even anyone?”

“No,” Castiel said, suddenly feeling warm.

“No girlfriend?”

“No boyfriend,” Castiel corrected.  _ Very  _ warm, actually.

_ “Oh,” _ Dean said. “So what  _ do  _ you do?”

“I write. More than just the supernatural—I also write some novels, when I have the time.”

“Wow,” Dean said. “Published?”

“It’s one way to make a living,” Castiel said wryly. “It’s not like patching hunters up makes any money, after all.”

“Like I said, if you want me to pay you—”

“Dean, I was kidding.”

Dean pursed his lips. “I’m just saying—not that I’m complaining, of course, not after you pretty much saved my life, but you don’t  _ have  _ to do this, y’know?”

“You don’t have to hunt, either,” Castiel pointed out. “Look at us both.”

Dean paused. “Touché.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a half-smile. “Well, I’d better get going, anyhow—”

“I do this because I want to,” Castiel said. “Because I enjoy helping others. Healing them to the best of my abilities.” He inclined his head. “Why do you hunt?”

“The same reasons.”

“That’s not enough,” Castiel said. “What else?”

Dean clammed up, and then said, “You know what? I’ll tell you… the  _ next  _ time I come over.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped open. “That’s not fair!”

“Says you.” Dean reached out and jokingly patted Castiel’s cheek.

“Fine,” Castiel grumbled, ducking away.

“Fine,” Dean said back. He was smiling, now. “See ya, Cas.”

“Bye, Dean.”

Castiel watched Dean leave, again, still rolling his shoulders absentmindedly, and then turned to head back inside.

The hunters that stopped by, they’d build their walls back up as soon as they broke apart; left as quickly as they came. Castiel didn’t expect anything more—didn’t want anything more. He treasured the little moments, the barely-there smiles and shining gratitude. Sometimes he’d have one or two familiars drop by for a visit now and then, always with more thank-yous and sometimes a tip or two about their encounters with the supernatural for him to pen into his journal, use for a potential _ later.  _ He got a postcard, once; from Florida with a scratchy all-caps greeting and lingering sentiment that warmed him from the inside out.

A week passed.

Castiel wrote two more chapters in the second book of his novel and updated his lore on a few more supernatural creatures. He set, cleaned, and wrapped a broken bone from a hunter with black hair and heavy-set brown eyes, who took up his offer for chamomile tea and spilled a story about a civilian whom he’d fallen in love with after saving from a wendigo den. Castiel patted his back and offered, haltingly, the best advice he could—love, apart from the familial, wasn’t something he was experienced in. Like he’d said, he didn’t do hook-ups. He rarely interacted with anyone who wasn’t a hunter, and hunters typically weren’t looking for anything of the sort. (He did have a hazy memory of Meg, a fiery soul who’d flirted with Castiel, hard, while he patched up a knife wound on her stomach, courtesy of a skinwalker. They had spent the night together, and Castiel never saw her again—although he did use her personality as inspiration for one of his characters.) 

The knock came while he was writing, frantically chasing a spark of inspiration that had finally flickered into view after weeks of painful blockage. 

A single sharp, firm knock—and then a thud.

Castiel felt his heart stutter in his ribcage as he immediately got up and ran for the exits.

He opened the door, expecting but still being shocked at the sight of Dean, sprawled on the ground. His eyes scanned over him—caught on the vivid technicolour red of blood, so much of it, spilling across his welcome mat and soaking it through. Dean’s hands were clutched against it all, and it must’ve been bad, it must’ve been  _ awful,  _ for someone like him (tough as nails) to be gasping in pain and staring up at Castiel with eyes a harsh green-grey.

“Hey,” Dean breathed, and doubled over in a fit of coughing.

“Dean,” Castiel said, his mind running overtime and tripping over itself in a haste. “Jesus  _ Christ,  _ Dean, what happened—Dean,  _ Dean.” _

“Shapeshifter,” Dean said, and then his eyes went dull. His body going limp.

Castiel felt his mind shut down, and then a strange sort of emotion took over—half running autopilot and damage control as he hauled Dean over the doorstep and into the halls, trying not to drag him too much but fearful, terrified, of dropping him at the same time—there was so much blood, just streaming down. An unbolted faucet all over the tiles; Castiel didn’t think it would ever get out, the way it would soak in.

He registered this half-heartedly, even when he could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears and his own frantic, staccato breathing. He dragged Dean over to the chair, letting out an unhindered sound at the sight of his mangled shirt, the gore all over his hands.

He’d seen worse. He’d seen worse, he convinced himself, hands trembling as he searched for the ingredients he would need. He’d seen worse—but had he really, and was it ever this bad, for  _ him,  _ for him to react like this?

A groan of pain. Dean was stirring— _ already?  _

“Don’t move.” Castiel was shocked at how rough his voice sounded, how unhinged.

“Cas,” Dean said, always rebellious, never listening, never listening to Cas—he shifted in his seat and then groaned again, loud and agonizing and tearing right into Castiel.

“I said don’t fucking move,” Castiel said, dropping down next to Dean. How could it be this bad? He thought Dean was a capable hunter, a good one, a great one; how could he have possibly let it get this bad? He told Dean to be careful—damn it, he  _ promised  _ it.

“S—” Dean gasped, gurgled. “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” Castiel said. He wrenched his mind towards coherency. The wound was deep enough that stitches wouldn’t be enough, he knew enough for that, even without cutting through the shirt. He didn’t even know if that would be safe, not when it was such a mess down here. Castiel was a healer, not a doctor, he didn’t  _ know  _ this—only knew how to make salves and balms and spellwork—

He swallowed, hard. “You’re going to be okay,” he mumbled, then repeated it, louder. “Do you hear me, Dean? You are going to be okay.”

Dean mumbled something. Castiel shoved down the hysterical sound that bubbled in his chest, and scrambled away to grab the heavy, leather-bound spellwork all the way in the back of the bookshelf, tucked in like a secret.

Hurrying back, he flipped to the page he needed, and breathed a sigh of relief when he read that it would only require an incantation.

“Dean, I told you to stay still,” he snapped as he crouched down, eyes skimming the page once, twice, running over the words in his head. This was a dangerous spell to get wrong.

“Okay,” Castiel breathed out. “Okay.” Hands still trembling, he placed one right over Dean’s forehead—cold and clammy—and began to recite the incantation.

Halfway through, he felt a tingling in his palm. It grew until it was a visible glow—golden and laced with something blue-green—swirling and creeping like ivy up his arm, all the way to his fingertips, numb and buzzing with power. The glow lit up Dean’s eyes and he heard Dean gasp, suck in a breath as if punched in the gut.

Still reciting loudly, smoothly, Castiel stroked a thumb across Dean’s temple in the only motion he dared to make. 

Dean twitched like a marionette. The tendrils of power caressed their way down his body until it found his wound, and then zeroed in within a split second, surrounding it, encasing it in warm, golden power.

Castiel’s own stomach lurched and shuddered, but he kept reading. The glow grew until it was unbearable, until Castiel’s eyes burned but he kept reading, not missing a single beat, his thumb still passing back and forth, back and forth, so softly on Dean’s temple. 

He spoke the last few words, and then watched as the glow trickled away, and then faded completely.

Barely daring, Castiel passed a hand over Dean’s stomach, then pressed the gentlest of pressure. There was nothing but blood.

All the tension released from him in a single beat. Strings cut loose, he slumped, nearly falling over before he regained his energy. He was exhausted, like he’d just run a marathon, his pulse a dangerous flutter, delicately cupped in the palm of his hands; he was acutely reminded of why he rarely used this particular spell as he stood up to put the book away and his vision went hazy and spotted.

Sitting back down, right onto the floor, Castiel placed the book to his side. He could deal with it later.

For now, he just sat, breaths shallow and sporadic, and watched his fingers tremble like leaves in his lap.

“Cas?”

Dean was awake. Castiel looked up.

“Cas—oh my God, what happened?” Dean stood up. Castiel saw the way he flinched when he remembered, inhaled with surprise when he saw his stomach, healed completely. “What the hell did you do?”

“Spell,” Castiel said.

“You did this?” Dean clenched his hand on his shirt, coming away stained red. Castiel nodded, vision going blurry again as he did his best to focus on the other. “Fuck. Okay, just—just hang on, Cas, can you get up for me? We need to get you to, to a doctor, or something—”

“No,” Castiel croaked. “Just—rest.” He took a breath, tried again. “I just need to rest.”

“Fuck,” Dean hissed, his voice suddenly a lot closer than before. “Okay, okay, fine, just rest, but—not on the floor, damn it, Cas, come on.”

Castiel felt arms wind around him, and he had half a mind to protest before he was already being hauled up, his face suddenly smashed into flannel and flaking blood.

He made a small noise of protest and felt Dean’s weak chuckle from the rumble in his chest. “Just hang on, okay? Where’s your room? Down this hall?”

“Mm,” Castiel said, and shifted to press his cheek against Dean’s chest instead. Dean was actually going towards the bathroom, but Castiel didn’t have enough energy left to say it.

Dean figured it out soon enough, accompanied with a string of curses as he pivoted on his heel to head towards the right direction. When he reached Castiel’s bedroom, his shoulders fell with relief.

“Alright, here we go,” Dean muttered, shifting his hold on Castiel to one arm only as he flipped back the covers with the other.

“No,” Castiel murmured. When Dean tried to lower him down, he tightened the hold he had around Dean’s neck.

Dean’s voice was irritated, a little panicky. “Cas,  _ what?” _

“Dirty clothes,” Castiel breathed, eyes falling closed. Dean was so warm. He could just fall asleep here instead. “Clean bed.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean said, and unceremoniously pried Castiel’s hands off and dumped him into his bed.

“Dean!” Castiel said.

“Just get some rest, will you?” Dean’s voice was soft and pleading. “Hell, I’ll do your damn laundry for you if you’re that fucking worried. Just  _ sleep.  _ Please.”

“Hmm,” Castiel said. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, and Castiel heard rustling before thick, fluffy sheets were draped over him, tucked right under his chin and all around him.

“G’night,” Castiel mumbled, turning around to bury his face into his pillow.

“It’s afternoon, idiot,” he heard Dean reply, and felt something warm and gentle pass over his head before he finally let the tide of sweeping exhaustion pull him under.

The people he met always had some sort of story to tell, each unique in their own way, anecdotes tumbling out while Castiel tended to their wounds, or recovering over sips of coffee or tea. He met all sorts—young and old, fresh-faced hunters to the worn and weary and haunted-eyed. He always tried to listen, the best he could, and respond with carefully-picked words.

To some of them, if he deemed it safe enough to try, he would offer a hug, or some sort of touch as a physical reassurance. Hunting, especially alone, was a cruel and capricious task. If Castiel did a good-enough job of navigating through their maze of guarded facades, they would clutch to Castiel like a lifeline. The hugs always felt, in some way, desperate.

There was sunshine hitting the side of his face.

Castiel came to with a sleepy grumble. The evening light was streaking through his bedroom window right through the crack of his curtains, bright coral oranges and apple-reds.

He was alone in his room, he noticed as he slowly gained awareness. He was still wearing his daytime clothing, and he wrinkled his nose at that—he  _ hated  _ wearing anything but pyjamas in bed, it just felt unclean and wrong—and then the reason behind that suddenly barrelled into his mind in flashes and bursts and he gasped and kicked away his covers and was out his door within a second.

“Dean?” he called out. “Dean!”

He turned into his kitchen, and collided right into him.

“Woah!” Dean said, arms automatically wrapping around as he steadied Castiel. “Cas! You’re awake, thank  _ fuck.”  _ His hands started to pass over him, checking for invisible injuries. “How are you feeling? Still tired? Hungry? Thirsty? Need a shower?”

“Um,” Castiel said, blinking up at Dean inches away.  _ He  _ had taken a shower, it would seem—his hair was clean and still damp at the tips. He had changed, too—were those Castiel’s pyjamas?

“Oh,” Dean said. “Um. I took a shower and kinda, maybe, changed. I just took the first thing I saw, I  _ swear,  _ I didn’t look into your drawers or anything like a creep, Cas, I promise.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel said, smiling a little at the way Dean’s ears were turning red. 

His own ears perked, suddenly, at a sound that came floating in down the halls; Castiel recognized a smooth sultry guitar and a soft crooning voice.

“Is that music?” he inquired.

“What? Oh. Yeah,” Dean said. “You have a  _ real  _ record player. And some damn good vinyl, too. I thought you said you didn’t listen to music.”

“I don’t,” Castiel said. “I don’t even remember where I got it from.”

“Oh,” Dean said, face flushing again. “Fuck, I’m sorry—what am I doing, just digging up all your shit, I’m real sorry—”

“Dean,” Castiel said firmly. “It’s okay. Seriously.”

“Okay,” Dean said, visibly relieved. “Good. Anyway, enough about me, how are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” Castiel replied. “The spell only drained the bearer’s energy, nothing more. A simple rest sufficed.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped even more. Castiel didn’t realize how keyed-up he was until then, the tension thrumming through him like a live wire.

He mumbled something, too quiet for Castiel to hear.

“What was that?” Castiel said.

Dean glanced up, face suddenly grim. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For making you do that.”

Castiel just stared at Dean. His guilty eyes, his tight-pressed lips, and then he felt a righteous anger surge through his veins.

“Dean, listen to me,” he said, his voice snapping and strong. “How many times do I have to tell you that you have nothing to be sorry for?  _ I’m  _ the one who offers help.  _ I’m  _ the one who  _ tells  _ you to come here for it. So don’t you ever apologize for it.”

“Still,” Dean said. So stubborn, so  _ stupidly  _ stubborn, bullheaded to a T. “It was my fault for being hurt. For being careless, after I promised you I’d be careful.”

Castiel didn’t know what he wanted to do—punch him, hug him. He was struggling to contain himself. “Why are you so  _ inconsolable?” _

Dean swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. Castiel fell silent, watching. Waiting.

“I told you last time,” Dean said. “That I hunt because I like helping others. Saving them.”

He paused. Castiel didn’t make a move to speak—breath coming shallowly at the raw, unfiltered green in Dean’s eyes.

“I meant it. Saving people, hunting things, it’s kind of my thing. It’s supposed to be my thing. I don’t like—don’t need—want—others to have to do the job for me.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, the word rushing out like an uppercut. “It’s not a one-way street.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered, too-bright. He averted his gaze.

“It’s not.” Castiel felt an untethered sort of desperation, pushing and pushing, the plea clear on his own face. “I’m not helping you for you, I’m doing it for me. You have to let others help you, too. Let  _ me  _ help you, Dean. Please.”

Dean closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again, fixed straight at Castiel. “You sure? You might not like what you see.”

“I don’t care,” Castiel said immediately.

“And how do you know that?” Dean’s voice was dark and bitter and Castiel thought, wildly, that whatever happened to this beautiful boy—whatever, whomever, turned him into this bottled, dangerous thing—he would never forgive them.

“I just do,” Castiel said. “I just know it.”

They were standing so close, now. Dean’s arms were still twined gently around him, resting somewhere on his lower back and curling at his sides. Warmth, all around him.

Dean said, “Cas.” Quietly, like a breeze.

Castiel tilted his head up to meet Dean as Dean leaned in.

Their mouths brushed, gently, almost frightened, before coming in once more, gaining confidence in increments. Castiel, twining his hands into Dean’s hair. Dean’s thumb, stroking back and forth, back and forth, at Castiel’s skin through his shirt.

“It’s not a one-way street,” Dean whispered the words against Castiel’s lips. “You have to let me in, too.”

“I know,” Castiel said. “I will. I am.”

“Good,” Dean said.

They stood there for a while longer, then longer still; saying no more, just exchanging sweet kisses. 

A checkpoint to refill the health bar, maybe, but some sort of sentiment always made him hope that, upon entering his home, they were healed in more ways than one.

> _ I will not ask you where you came from _
> 
> _ I will not ask you and neither should you _
> 
> _ Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips _
> 
> _ We should just kiss like real people do _
> 
> —Hozier, Like Real People Do


End file.
